


The Eternal Silence of Infinite Spaces

by Shayheyred



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 04:13:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2718374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayheyred/pseuds/Shayheyred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The most profound statements are often said in silence</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eternal Silence of Infinite Spaces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Avery11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [無盡空間的永恆靜默 (The Eternal Silence of Infinite Spaces) [Translation]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5794396) by [MizuTranslates (koimizu)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/koimizu/pseuds/MizuTranslates)



> For the prompt "Peace on Earth" 
> 
> * * *

Napoleon shivered.

“Well that’s that,” said Illya.

Now that the fight was over, Napoleon was drenched in sweat and the cold air whipping under his collar sent icy needles down his spine. He tightened the scarf around his neck and struggled upward, wavering slightly. Illya’s large hand was there to grip him by the biceps until he stood erect on his own. Napoleon grunted his thanks.

“Hurts, does it?”

“Master of understatement, you are.” Napoleon grimaced as he bent to brush snow off his trousers. “I think my kneecap’s loose.”

“Serves you right for letting him kick you there. Can you walk?” 

“As long as it’s not a hike.”

“About three kilometers.” Napoleon made a face. “Don’t worry,” Illya said, grinning. “Not all of it is uphill.”

“Great.” Napoleon took note of the huge weapon hanging loosely from Illya’s grip, and of Illya rubbing his shoulder. “I see that new gun has quite a kick.”

“It did the job.” 

“ _You_ all right?”

“Of course I’m all right.” 

“Bet you a kopek you’re black and blue for a week.”

“Some of us are not such delicate creatures, Napoleon.” Illya rotated his shoulder once, twice, and then ignored it.

“Well, in any case we’re both better off than they are.” Napoleon gestured at the field before them. What had been a pristine, picture-postcard landscape now was dotted with splotches of red. Bodies lay sprawled everywhere in limp piles, some half-covered by the snow that had continued to fall during the firefight. “How many would you say?”

“Hard to tell. Thirty, perhaps?” 

Napoleon nodded wearily and limped over to his backpack, a lump of grey and white camo rapidly becoming obscured by drifting snow. He considered the surrounding terrain. Nothing moved. “I _think_ we got them all.”

“One would hope.” Illya hoisted the gun to his shoulder. “We should go. The guide’s not going to wait forever.” He shifted the rifle to a more comfortable position.

Napoleon smiled inwardly at his partner’s stoic expression. That rifle really did pack a wallop, but Illya was too stubborn to show discomfort. “I didn’t think THRUSH had this many operatives in the Swiss Alps.”

“Perhaps they were imported. Like cheeses.”

“Imported, huh? That would explain the one shouting in Danish. And that trio raising holy hell in Farsi.”

“Danish, Persian, Greek, it does not matter. They’re all Swiss now.”

“All Swiss? Oh – wait. I get it. They’re all ‘holey.’” Napoleon rolled his eyes but snorted anyway. “That is a spectacularly cheesy joke.”

“Hm.” Illya paused for a final scan of their surroundings, turning in a complete circle until he’d assured himself all was quiet. “Let’s go.”

They fell silent, boots sinking deeply into the heavy snow, their breath steaming in frosty clouds. The snow in their faces proved an impediment, a white lace curtain that swirled around them, obscuring the way. The field turned into a rolling hill, then a steady uphill grade. Gentle at first, soon the terrain curved sharply upward toward the mountains, making headway even more difficult.

“Hold up.” Napoleon paused to catch his breath. The air was cold, crisp, invigorating despite their climb. He regarded the empty landscape in which they stood. He recalled a phrase he’d read once, long ago: _The eternal silence of these infinite spaces fills me with dread_. But he felt no dread, only calm contentment. The falling snow at last had begun to dissipate, vastly improving visibility. Other than their own footprints the land was a perfect white against the black sky; as the clouds blew away a slender moon appeared, palely illuminating the earth below. Napoleon was taken with the beauty of their surroundings, and for a moment forgot the ache in his knee, the firefight, the bloody field. “Illya.”

Illya stopped a few paces ahead and looked, but not at the scenery. Instead he cocked an eyebrow at his partner. “Don’t dawdle, Napoleon. What is it?”

“Look at it.”

“Look at what?“

“This! All of it! Mountains, fir trees, virgin snowfall! Stop and take it all in, Illya. It’s beautiful.” 

“We have a narrow window, Napoleon—“

“I mean it, stop and look. Not so much as a single skier or a lonely chalet for miles. Just us. What an incredible sight. What a night! Come on. Can’t you just enjoy the moment?”

Illya shot him a speaking look. He sighed in capitulation. “If you insist.”

“I do. When will we pass this way again? Take a breath, my friend. Enjoy the view.”

Illya took off his ski hat to dust off the snow and the brisk wind stirred his non-regulation-length hair. He looked off toward the mountains, his eyes momentarily closing as he inhaled deeply. He released his breath in a long plume of white and opened his eyes, his face softening. “All right, I admit it. It is lovely.”

Napoleon watched his partner relax, a rare enough sight as to be remarkable. He observed the wind as it ruffled Illya’s hair. Illya was still and silent, a dark shadow against the stark whiteness of the hill, his hair silvery in the muted moonlight. There were flecks of snow caught in Illya’s lashes. 

_Something is happening._

He’d felt a rush before after a death-defying fight, as if he were physically being shoved out of the darkness towards light, towards life. But what was this? It was more than could be explained by surviving a THRUSH ambush, more than could be blamed on the glorious mountain scenery. In front of him, mere paces away, within his reach—Napoleon caught his breath: _within my reach?_ —Illya raised a hand to point toward the woods as a stag stepped out into the starlight, crowned by spectacular antlers, twin bursts of foggy breath jetting from its large nostrils. Napoleon’s heart thundered. 

“Illya.”

“Yes?” Illya’s eyes remained on the stag. When Napoleon did not reply, Illya turned toward him. “What, Napoleon?”

His throat was dry. “Beautiful,” he managed. His voice rasped, the sound unrecognizable in his own ears. 

Illya’s gaze returned to the stag. “Beautiful. Yes,” he agreed, replacing his hat. “What an extraordinary beast.”

“Yes.” _Extraordinary indeed._

The stag smelled the air, stabbed a hoof into the snow several times and then turned his head towards them. It seemed to be looking directly into Napoleon’s eyes. Silence fell; for Napoleon it was as if time stopped completely, leaving them alone in all the world. “Peace on Earth,” he said softly. “Good will toward men.”

“What did you say?”

“Merry Christmas, Illya.”

“Ah, is it.” Illya consulted his watch. “I see. Well, Yule greetings to you as well.” 

Napoleon smiled, his reverie ending. But already his mind was on other, newer thoughts. _What have I discovered?_

 _What will happen when we get back, to our safe house?_

What indeed?

_A chalet, a fire. Warm at last. No one trying to kill us. Just the two of us, alone. Silence perhaps, but a different silence. There’ll be no snowflakes on his lashes then, but there will be firelight, and all the time in the world to find out if, if he, if we perhaps—_

“We need to hurry.”

“I know.” The stag still regarded them, its gaze challenging: _Go. This silent place is my world, not yours._ “I hate to leave. It’s so peaceful here.”

Suddenly the stag pricked up its ears, stomped at the earth again and turned, tail flicking, and disappeared among the snowy firs. There was a muffled crunch behind them and they swiveled as one, as a bloodied THRUSH agent staggered out from behind a tree, grenade in hand. Illya lifted the massive rifle and fired once. Red bloomed in the white uniform jacket, directly over the agent’s heart. 

The man fell backwards quietly, softly, dead before he hit the snow, reverberations from the shot echoing into silence in the surrounding mountains. A moment later the night was punctured by the muffled explosion of the grenade beneath the dead body. Bloody bits of flesh showered the snow, forming a perfect bull’s eye of gore, mangled remains at the center. Napoleon took a shuddering breath and wiped a drop of blood from his cheek.

Illya raised his head. His face was once again hard, his eyes chips of ice. “It’s peaceful _now_ ,” he said dispassionately. 

Napoleon shivered.


End file.
